


dreams do come true (in new orleans)

by alisdas



Series: occupation: brat [4]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Arguing, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major Character Injury, Older Man/Younger Woman, the princess and the frog references bc im a whore, whoops posted this like last month on my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 11:34:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: It all starts as a mission gone wrong.





	dreams do come true (in new orleans)

**Author's Note:**

> also available on my tumblr [venusbarnes](venusbarnes.tumblr.com)<33333333

New Orleans is a dizzying mess of jazz and sweet-smelling wind and heavy, humid air. The sound of saxophones and shouting and laughing blend into a delirium-inducing cocktail that Steve pushes away readily in favour of focusing on _you_; ear poised towards where you’re sitting at a café, pink feather boa around your shoulders and cheap plastic pearls wound around your neck. You’d been so excited to visit _The Big Easy_, even if it _was _for a mission, and he sees it in the giddy way your eyes flitter between parade floats.

_“My favourite Disney princess is from New Orleans,” you’d said as he painted your toenails. “Have we watched _The Princess and the Frog_ yet?”_

He wishes he’d taken you here before – no malevolent scientists to tail and apprehend, just you and your fairytale fantasy. But no – this city would just become another one to add to the books; another debriefing, another report, another scar on soft skin that he would make a point to kiss. 

(He’s gonna bring you here again, he promises.)

He looks over at you now – just a glance, so as to not rouse any suspicion. You look beautiful, all surrounded by vibrant hues of the rainbow and glitter sparkling on your eyes, a Mardi Gras princess in your own right. You fit in wonderfully but you don’t blend right into the crowd, becoming another faceless visage – no, his eyes couldn’t miss you if he tried. People are attracted to you like moths to flames, and he is no exception; maybe it’s the confidence you exude, so potent and easily read – or maybe it’s the curl of your lashes, the way your eyes shine when you smile, the pout of your lips…You have the kind of atmosphere that makes people wonder how you came to simply _exist _in the same space as them.

_Focus_.

Steve clears his throat and continues surveying the crowd. “Anything your way?”

You take a sip of something caffeinated and overly-sweetened. “Nada, Cap. By the way, you’re looking _awfully _suspicious.”

“I’m not,” he argues. He looks around; everybody else is walking with the parade floats just like he is. He’s dressed adequately, his beard ensures he’s not too recognizable–

“You look angry Captain,” you coo, teasing lilt to the sweetness of your voice – and yeah, he has to restrain a smile, what of it? “Turn that frown upside down, hm?”

“This is my mission face,” he mumbles, just the tiniest bit sheepish. “I’m tryna concentrate, sweetheart.”

“And you’re doing _amazing_, sweetie. But lighten it up a bit, yeah? You’re lookin’ like the grim reaper. But hotter.”

_That _makes him laugh. He shakes his head, chuckling at the dollar-and-pearl covered ground. “They might be goin’ over our comms transcriptions, you know that, right?”

You hum. “I don’t care. Let them hear.”

Steve ignores how his heart jolts. How long had he been waiting to hear something like that? God knows that Steven Grant Rogers is a fool in love; worships the very ground you walk on. But how long has he wanted to be able to hold your hand in public, kiss your forehead while making breakfast, cuddle you close during _Friday Movie Nights_? Too fucking long.

(_Language_.)

He paints it in his head now; a sweet trip to New Orleans where you can eat gumbo and beignets and jambalaya to your heart’s content, traipsing the French Quarter in all its glory of Victorian mansions and Creole townhouses. You’ll tug him into some tucked away voodoo shops and marvel at charms and necklaces and herbs that promise love – the all-consuming, all-entrenching kind – the kind that he already feels, but he won’t tell you that because you’re a _horrible _tease. 

And when you return to the woody upstate compound you won’t rip your hands away from his as you come off the quinjet – won’t leave him with a peck on the lips that will have to tide him over until you can be alone. You’ll tighten your grip and look up at him with that smile that makes his heart weaken just that bit more–

“Whaddya say after this,” he begins carefully, glancing down at his shoes, “We–”

“_Steve look out–_!”

And the world turns upside down. There’s a painful pressure in his side, and then he’s weightless, weightless, weightless – until he’s not, and he hits the ground with a grunt and a pained gasp, skin bruising underneath asphalt. Screams erupt in the air around him, and there’s running and sprinting and people moving above him, fleeing like it’s the only thing they know how to do. Steve lifts himself up, scowling.

The man coming out of the car that hit him is not the man you’re looking for. Where the scientist is short, balding, this man is tall and built, head covered by a cage-like mask that only reminds Steve of enemies long gone. 

“Mister America,” the man greets teasingly, voice like gravel. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“_Steve–_”

Your voice comes from across the road, not the little piece of metal that’s supposed to be in his ear. _Shit_. For all he knows, his earpiece has been squashed into a crumpled scrap of junk. 

“It’s not him,” Steve pants, readying himself. “It’s not him. Do not engage. Try for the quinjet – I’ll meet you there ASAP.”

“But I can_ help–_!”

“That’s an_ order_, agent!” He says sharply. And then the fighting begins.

Growling in irritation, you down the rest of your drink and take out your phone. You were trained for this! Years and years of krav maga and mixed martial arts and gymnastics and you couldn’t even help your dumbass of a boyfriend as he was fighting what literally looked like the Terminator. You were _fuming_ – but goddamnit he gave you an order and you know after the first time that he takes them seriously. Especially when his opponent is strong enough to give him a run for his money. 

_Sitting here and looking pretty it is. I knew I should’ve worn my Louboutin trainers._

You take out your phone from your pocket and begin typing away, eyes flickering up to the scene in front of you every few seconds. He really expected you to watch as he takes punch after punch to the face? You feel sick to your stomach every time the masked behemoth lands a sucker right on his jaw – but Steve Rogers is just as strong, and for every hit taken he gives one right back.

Restless and agitated, you begin to survey your surroundings. Very coincidental that this freak of nature should show up just as you’re supposed to be apprehending the _creator _of said freak of nature. It’s a very obvious distraction, good enough to keep even Captain America preoccupied, but the scientist _has _to pass through here to collect the rest of his hidden research at some point and you’d be _damned _if–

Your eyes catch the tail end of a balding man slipping down a nearby alleyway. _Bingo_.

You look back to where Steve is bashing the man’s face in with a severed car door. It doesn’t seem to be doing much – the enhanced is too, well, _enhanced_. 

_But Steve said don’t engage. _

_But if I don’t go after him I’ll have missed my chance._

_But Steve’s going to be angry with you._

_But Steve doesn’t know _everything_. Besides, he’ll be happy if you complete the mission._

_But, but, but, but, but–_

You glance at Steve again. He’s distracted – he wouldn’t even notice you slinking away. And if you _did_ capture Dr. Turgenev then he wouldn’t even _care _that you disobeyed a direct order, right? Mind made, you type out one last message to Command; _unexpected enhanced assailant engaged in combat with Cap. Currently in pursuit of target. Evac requested. _

You pocket your phone and immediately set into a sprint, braiding through abandoned cars and parade floats and trash cans until you reach that dark, dank little alley. A sharp left turn and the sun is blotted out by those two-story colonial townhouses, cardboard boxes and trash cans piled high on either side of you. You slow down to a creep, bending slightly at the knee and making a mental list of all the weapons you had managed to hide on your person, just in case; a knife tucked by your ankle, a gun by your hip… You’d stolen a few of Natasha’s widow bites, too. (She wouldn’t miss ‘em.)

You slip the gun from its holster and hold it firmly in your hand, breath steady and quiet as you listen for movement. There’s sirens in the distance, the sound of cars driving – music still playing from abandoned floats and bands playing in bars a few streets over. The end of the alleyway is contained by a tall chained gate, and you’re almost to it – where did he fucking _go_?

You straighten up as you reach the gate, sighing. You give the gate an experimental tug, just in case, but it doesn’t budge. So much for impressing the Captain–

“Well, I must say,” a voice says behind you. “This is a surprise.”

Your gun is cocked again as you spin around, heart thumping. Jesus, how did he hide from you? He must’ve stuffed himself behind a pile of garbage bags and discarded furniture – you’re sure he’s hidden in worse. 

Dr. Turgenev is your average HYDRA type – greedy for knowledge and power and money. Runs at the first sight of authority – which was what he was attempting to do before you interrupted. Probably has a cosy little base in the backarse of Russia where he could experiment on unsuspecting children and puppies.

You raise a brow. “I prefer my surprises with ribbons and high price tags.”

He ignores you, tilting his head to the side – and that really should be the first warning. He’s too confident for an unarmed fugitive who’s faced with a gun. “Why, you can’t be older than 17.”

“I’m 19, asshole,” you say in annoyance, narrowing your eyes. His accent is grating on you now. It’s not like Wanda’s – not that silky, rich way she pronounces her words and rolls her r’s, like smooth chocolate and snuggling during snowstorms and watching 90s chick-flicks. His voice is thin and nasally, condescending and patronizing and _everything _you hate from middle-aged white men. “Now do me a favour and put your hands up?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “I’m afraid that can’t happen, pet.”

(You _bristle._ God, you want to deck this guy.)

“And why not?” You sneer. “Not on your schedule, hm?”

“Not at all.” His smile, then, is thin and cold. “Me and my boys are off to greater things, _kotyonok_, and we can’t have you or the Captain interfering.”

_Boys_. Plural. But you had only seen one…

Oh, no.

“Fuck,” you whisper. The doctor looks over your shoulder, smile widening, and you feel your stomach sink. Dread – bitter and bleak and frigidly cold creeps up your spine. There’s movement behind you, the rustling of chains. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck–

“Deal with her,” the doctor says. He has the gaul to look regretful. “Quickly.”

You barely have time to turn around before one tree trunk of an arm swings out and catches your chest, pushing you to the ground and knocking your gun out of your hand. As the doctor scurries away, your gun in hand – presumably to collect his things now that you’ve been abstracted – you steel yourself. You wouldn’t get out of this without a beating, but if you evaded his attacks for long enough, maybe Steve would find you…

(This was a stupid fucking idea. Why do you even make your own decisions anymore?) 

The man – monster – that you’ve been left with is at least 7 feet tall, broad and built like a cheesy WWE wrestler. He’s dressed head-to-toe in black combat gear, same cage-like mask around his head like the other had. The dead, still look in his eyes reminds you of Bucky, back when they still called him _Soldat_. You don’t call many people terrifying, but…

“Alright, big guy,” you pant, raising your fists. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t charge – which is all the more scary. He stalks towards you, legs taking gigantic steps that you could only _hope_ to evade – and as he raises his arms to bring down on your head, you duck, swinging underneath his log-like arms and making a grab for the knife at your ankle.

_Jab, jab, swipe. Block, swing, jab. _There’s no rhythm to your hits. You’re mostly on the defence, and any hits you take at him are blocked by his gear which seems to be made from _fucking cement. _Any attempt to pull a Natasha and wind your legs around his neck are quickly cut off by his unnatural strength – even the widow bites don’t do much damage. 

You’re out of your depth; growing tired and weary, hopelessness replacing what fighting spirit you had possessed. You glance back at the entrance to the alleyway, hoping by some miracle that your knight in shining armour would come barrelling in to save you – but with your comms down and your penchant for running off rearing its ugly head, the only thing you can do is fight until your limbs literally can’t take anymore; which comes quite soon. 

A wallop to the torso and a stomp on your leg leaves you with at least a few broken bones. Your face is puffy and numb with pain and a migraine is settling just over your eyes – and there’s red, red, red, and you’re so heavy and tired and–

Your knees buckle and your eyes roll to the back of your head.

Your senses trickle back like water from a tap – except the tap is rusted and mildewy and was fitted in the 19th century, and the water isn’t actually water; it’s mud. Also, the tap has been due for a replacement for the past 10 years _and _it randomly decides to shut off at the most inopportune times.

First it’s the beeping, which as one can imagine is quite terrifying when you can’t _see _anything, can’t even sense the light on your eyelids. It’s steady and rhythmic, but it still jars you every time the silence is disrupted by that dull, medicinal _beep! _You float in and out of consciousness and sleep, and for a while, the beeping is the only thing that tells you whether you’re awake or not – but then it’s the talking. Soft murmurs and sighs and incomprehensible chitter-chatter. 

_I’m awake!_ You want to say._ I’m here! Wake me the fuck up!_

But you’re simply too tired to move. You’re dragged back to dreamland.

After that, you realise you can smell things again. Chemicals and hand sanitizer and… and men’s cologne. Familiar, but your brain can’t quite get a grasp… 

You’re in a hospital, you surmise. Well, obviously. Your memory wasn’t completely screwed; you remembered your stupid decision and the beating you took as a result – though you wished you didn’t. You wince internally. How _embarrassing_! As if being one of the youngest on the team wasn’t bad enough. You’d be lucky if you weren’t placed on timeout for the next few weeks, months… _years_.

And Steve! God, Steve. You feel sick (_sicker_) to your stomach. You suppose that the fact that you’re in a hospital means that he found you in time and got you here. You didn’t want him to ever see you like that – you know deep down what you mean to him and you know he’s lost so much…

You really need to work on your stubbornness. And your debilitating need for approval – because that’s why you had run off, isn’t it? You wanted Steve to be proud of you. You wanted him to see that you could be brave and powerful and take on that stumpy little scientist alone. And it had backfired – quite pathetically, too.

You stir, eyes aching and stinging as they begin to flutter. Your lips are dry and your throat is raw and husky with disuse – and when you inhale, your torso shakes and shudders, skin bruised and battered. The pain has your eyes watering only seconds after they’ve opened. You don’t even want to see the damage done.

You’re in one of many rooms in the medbay. An IV in your arm and bandages covering every inch of visible skin – and when you tilt your head to the side (still largely relying on your pillow for support, mind you), you’re greeted by bunches and bunches of flowers. You smile weakly. The team are a bunch of saps – but they’re _your _saps.

“FRIDAY?” You croak, swallowing thickly.

“Miss _____! You’re awake. I’ll notify Tony and Dr. Cho right away.”

“Yeah,” you say distractedly, frowning as you peer around the room. You’re not sure what exactly you’re looking for, but… “Is – uh – is Steve around?”

“Captain Rogers is away on a mission. He is due to return in nine hours. Would you like me to notify you of his return?”

You ignore the sinking disappointment in your chest, settling back into your scratchy sheets. You inhale shakily, shutting your eyes and reminding yourself that _it’s your fault you’re here, _____, don’t go getting upset because he’s not around_. “T-that’s okay, FRIDAY. What time is it?”

“It is currently 3 PM, Miss.”

That would explain the blinding sun shining through the curtains. Your head pounds, and you lean back again. “And how long have I been out?”

“Two weeks, Miss.”

Goddamnit.

“Even with the cradle?” You say incredulously. You’ve seen that thing heal broken bones and faces and _spirits _in hours.

“Yes, Miss. You–”

“Are a goddamn idiot, that’s what.” Tony is still in the process of removing his sunglasses when he storms in, jaw set and trembling. “What were you thinking?“ 

“I–”

“You weren’t, I know,” he snaps, coming to a stop at the foot of your bed. “Because I know you, ______, and I know that if you had given your shitty plan a second thought you wouldn’t be lying here in front of me.”

“Tony–”

“Don’t _Tony_ me!” He interrupts, and you realise with a start that his eyes are glassy. Chest heaving and breaths shaky, he raises his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Cap carried you off the quinjet. I thought – we thought you were–" 

He breaks off, inhaling deeply. Your nose and eyes begin to sting, throat closing up around the ball of tears hidden in your throat. You clench your fists, screwing your eyes shut. “I-I’m sorry, Tony.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it!” 

“I know.”

Another sigh, this time more defeated. You sniffle, peering over at him.

“Damnit, kid.” He collapses into the chair beside you, rubbing his eyes. “…Cap took a beating, too. Not as bad, but..” He sighs. “Took the first offer to get that enhanced bastard and left as soon as possible. Prague. He said he was fine.”

A pang of biting anger in your stomach. Yes, you’re angry. Maybe you have no right to be – it _is _your fault that you’re in the spot you’re in, but… but he’s your boyfriend! He left to gallivant around the Czech Republic while you were in critical condition? Maybe you’re being overdramatic. Are you being overdramatic? Maybe the 336 hours of sleep is going to your head. That’s probably it – but despite yourself, you’re still irritated.

“And Turgenev?” You say, biting down on the inside of your cheek.

“Cap’s got it handled.”

You cock your jaw, tilting your head to the side. That pesky burning pressure behind your eyes returns tenfold. “I’m sorry. I failed.” _You’re a failure. You’re a disappointment_.

“You didn’t fail, kid,” Tony says tiredly. He has that sad look in his eyes that he always takes on when you say something like that. _Don’t talk about yourself like that anymore. You’re not with your parents anymore. We’re a team. We’re family. _“Neither of you were prepared for the enhanced. Anyone would’ve been overpowered.”

But you still hadn’t acclimated to being part of a team. It’s been a year and a few months since you’ve joined the earth’s best defenders and yet you’re still not used to having to depend on someone other than yourself. (And maybe you never will – and maybe a part of you knows that, maybe a part of you is waiting for Tony to realise it. Waiting for you to mess up, waiting for the ball to drop…)

“Kid.”

Your head shoots up. 

“Hey, c’mon.” You’re confused for a second before you feel a tickling down the side of your cheek. Huffing, you rub the back of your hand over your eyes, skin wetted with salt. “Look, we’re not angry. We were worried, alright? If you’d been left another hour–”

He cuts himself off this time. Tapping his fingers against the armrest, he stands. “Get some rest. Dr. Cho will be in later to monitor your recovery.”

“Okay,” you say. Your voice is choked. Tony doesn’t mention it. 

You watch as he fiddles with the glasses hanging on his neckline, suddenly stopping by the door. He looks up at you and you can see his has something to say just _hanging _on the tip of his tongue. “…You’ll be okay?”

You smile weakly, heart clenching at this man in front of you – fellow neglected rich kid, equally as emotionally damaged. _Surrogate father_ – though you won’t tell him that. “I’ll be okay, T.”

He gives you his own little smile, a quirk of his lips. “Okay, kid. Sweet dreams.”

Sweet dreams wait for another hour until they come for you. 

You’re staring at the ceiling, replaying every detail of the-mission-gone-wrong. Everything you should’ve could’ve _would’ve _done. The signs you should’ve seen and the ones you ignored. Your incriminating need to fend for yourself and pull a lone wolf (_phew_, now is not the time to unpack years of abuse and neglect) – oh, and we can’t forget your inability to follow orders!

You groan, throwing your head back and regretting it when your vision swims. There’s nothing you hate more than knowing that you’re the cause of someone’s disappointment. And, more specifically, Steve’s. He’s got the kind of persona that makes you want to make him proud – all orderly and just and clinging onto that old-fashioned way of carrying oneself.

You turn over on your side – bad idea, by the way, because there’s a terrible ache in your ribs – and close your eyes._ Sweet dreams, sweet dreams, sweet dreams._..

When you wake the room is completely dark, save for the lights from your monitor and a tiny lamp by your bedside. You blink at the ceiling, groggy and disoriented, wincing as you attempt to sit up. “FRIDAY, what time–”

“1 AM.” The voice is not FRIDAY’s, and you jolt as you realise that Steve is sitting in the seat beside your bed, arms folded and eyes dark and _fuck, he’s still angry._ He watches closely as you sit up fully, avoiding his gaze expertly as you attempt to move without jostling your injuries. Then, heart racing, you swallow. 

“Tony said you went on a mission.”

He hums an answer. You lick your chapped lips, finally looking at him head-on; he hasn’t changed out of his gear. It’s not his regular Captain America suit – it’s darker, more menacing, star ripped from the front. In the low light, he looks even more intimidating. What was Steve doing running around Prague in his Nomad suit? You don’t ask – and neither does he. He doesn’t say, ask, mention, utter a _word_. Just stares at you, frowning. 

Your own anger flares defensively. “Well,” you snap. “Are you going to say anything or just stare?”

His eyes widen in that mocking way that you hate, and you have the sinking feeling that you know how this will go. Steve’s gone and shifted into what you’d fondly dubbed his _Bad Boy Steve Persona_ – the irritated, rule-breaking man who had pinned you against a wall a few months ago and kissed you silly, the man who had become a war criminal to save his friend. Though this won’t end quite as positively, you predict.

“What do you want me to say?” His voice is sharp beneath layers of fake, manufactured easiness. “You never listen anyway.”

“I want you to tell me why you left!” You say hotly, meeting his apathetic fury with passionate, burning irritation. “I – Tony said I almost died and you just _left_? To go run around _Prague _as _Nomad_? Anybody could’ve went after Turgenev and the enhanced, it didn’t have to be _you–_”

(So much for not asking.)

“That’s confidential.”

“Confidential?” You echo. A humourless laugh follows. “Okay, Steve. Pretend that the _only _reason you fucked off to Europe is because of some _confidential bullshit_–!”

“Watch your language,” he interrupts, nostrils flaring. “I’m your Captain.”

“So that’s what you are? Captain first and boyfriend second?”

His jaw sets. “If I need to be – which, obviously, I do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_, agent,” he begins, standing, “That you’re clearly unable to follow orders and are lacking in teamwork skills.”

And, God, you already know it – painfully self-aware as you are – but it still fucking _stings_. Your chest tightens, eyes watering, but you won’t let him see that he’s hurt you. Your lip curls and your eyes narrow and you fold your arms, raising an unimpressed brow. “Well, while we’re mulling over my problems, why don’t we take a look at yours, Captain?”

“My problems?” He huffs, laughing coldly. “My problems?”

“That’s what I said,” you snap. “For starters, how about we talk about how you never treat me like the agent you expect me to be? You treat me like a kid – like a baby. If you don’t trust me to have your back how am I supposed to trust you to have mine?”

“That’s what you think?” The incredulity in his voice makes you scoff. “That’s really what you think?”

“What other reason would you have for benching me 90% of the time, huh?”

He stares long and hard, but you’re resolute. Finally, he straightens up and pushes his shoulders back. “I’m putting you on leave for the unforeseeable future–”

“You can’t _do _that–!”

“_Yes I can_!” He snaps. “Because I’m your captain and I’ve decided that you need to work out whatever it is that needs working out before you get someone hurt–”

“Some _captain _you are.” Your voice is becoming obscured by the tears you’re fighting back – but Steve doesn’t back down. Neither do you. “Some _boyfriend _you are–”

“I carried you off that jet!” He roars suddenly, and you jump– “Bruised and battered and bleeding all over my fucking hands. Sorry I didn’t want to watch as they operated on you – if I knew it meant so much I would have stayed and watch them cut you open to stop your internal bleeding.”

“That’s not what I meant–!” Your voice breaks – fucking _tears–_!

“Then what did you mean?” And as he fixes you with a stern, cold stare, you can only feel red hot anger.

“I meant,” you say, bottom lip trembling, “that I almost died and I was scared and when I woke up I wanted to see my _boyfriend_, not an empty fucking room. But since the job is obviously more important than me–”

“Don’t start this–”

“I’m not starting anything. I’m finishing it.”

He freezes. And then, he nods, fists clenched at his sides. “Fine. _Fine_.”

He turns and storms out of the door, and the room fills with silence. The bad, lonely, desolate kind. You stare at the door for a while, hoping that he’ll return – and when he doesn’t, you slide under the scratchy hospital sheets and cry.

Steve Rogers has lost a lot. Anyone with two eyes and a beating heart could admit it; one look at his exhibit in the Smithsonian and even the most stubborn of critics could empathise with him. From first loves to best friends to the very culture ingrained in his bones, he’d been robbed of it. His family: gone. His first chance at love: gone. His favourite musicians and music and food and the way the advertisements in the city used to look and the subway–

When he woke from the ice he was out of his depth. God, was he out of his depth. There was technology even Howard Stark couldn’t have imagined up, giant glowing billboards that never dimmed, clothes his ma would’ve _gasped _at. He felt like he was drowning, out of control – some days he would’ve preferred being frozen in the icy depths of the North Atlantic. 

And then he found this ragtag group of miscreants he proudly calls family and this _job _and he focused his entire life into it – because that was all he knew in this day and age, right? Everything had changed except war. People never stop fighting. It was the one thing he could comfortably execute without problem.

And then this fizzling firework of a girl crashes into the compound wearing red-bottoms and too-long nails and his whole world came to a jarring stand-still – and then, in her flurry of smart comments and rolled eyes and snapping bubblegum he was thrown into some perpetual state of confusion and irritation, rocked from his cordial Captain persona and back into Steve Rogers. Back to the man with pet peeves and hobbies and favourites and flops, back to the man he hadn’t been in almost a century. 

It seemed that 70 years in the ice hadn’t helped him process his emotions any better – in fact, he’d say he’d taken a turn for the worst. He couldn’t understand what he felt for you – couldn’t understand why his chest felt weak when you blew obnoxious chewing gum bubbles and gossiped on the phone about how expensive your last dress was and how much it cost to have your nails done, when you teased him because he’d never seen _The Titanic and The Notebook._ So, naturally, he had filtered it into annoyance. 

What else could it be? You were practically a baby. 18 years old and as fresh-faced as you were after your skincare routine that was about a thousand steps long. Every slippery thought about how cute you were or how he wanted to hold you or how soft you looked was promptly beat down. They left a sour taste in his mouth. He had felt disgusting – and then that fateful mission ran its course and he had finally acted on his frustrations. And then, and then, and then… Well, you know how the story goes. 

The point is, for the first time in forever, Steve felt like himself. He’s not Captain America and he’s not Steve Rogers From Brooklyn – he’s just _him_. He’s just a guy with a girl, familiarising himself with the world around him and having fun doing it because he’s got you by his side. 

But New Orleans…

The English language doesn’t have a word strong enough for the fear he felt when he got his comm back on line and you were unresponsive. That limb-shaking, stomach turning fear that made him feel like he was back in 1945, staring down at the rapidly approaching blanket of blue, Peggy’s voice in his ear and his heart in his throat. When he found you in the alleyway he had just… shut himself off. He took on the role of Captain and got you to safety, hands stained red and heart racing like a horse.

He remembers how he carried you off of the jet, Dr. Cho and her assistants already ready to have you moved to the medbay. The team had gotten his messages about your injuries and watched on, horrified, as your broken body was wheeled away and out of sight. It didn’t settle in for a while – he had gone and debriefed the team, watching them exchange worried glances at the blood on his hands. He took a shower and had something to eat. 

And then, when he was sitting in his room alone, it all crashed to the forefront of his mind – because you were supposed to be there. That was your after mission ritual – a shower (together), something to eat, a movie that neither of you would be watching because you were too busy talking and cuddling and–

He was suddenly very aware that you had almost died, almost slipped through his fingers, almost threw your life away because you had _disobeyed orders_. He didn’t know what to do.

Steve had never really felt like a normal man since that little experiment 70-something years ago – but with the fury that had clouded his perceptions, the sadness and loneliness and downright _fear _that he felt too close to home – he truly felt like the most regular man in America.

So he left. Once Tony and Dr. Cho and Bruce had you stabilised he took the first mission made available and ran to Prague. More sombre than he had felt in a long time, he took his Nomad suit – and then he found Turgenev, and he beat him to a pulp. And he beat up his enhanced, too.

And now _this_. Steve storms out of your hospital room with the same anger clouding his features and his heart on his sleeve. His eyes sting with unshed tears and his breathing is choppy and uneven – but maybe this is for the best. No more distractions for either of you. You’d be safer.

Steve climbs onto his motorcycle and glances up at the Compound. 

_This is for the better._

(Maybe if he says it enough times, he’ll start to believe it.)

So maybe you were a tiny bit angry yesterday. 

Maybe you didn’t take Steve’s feelings into account. Maybe you were terrified of your own mortality! Maybe you thought that your comfort was more important than taking a dangerous man into custody. And _maybe_, you _might have _added fuel to the fire and made an awful decision. Again. 

You wake up the next morning with red eyes and a stuffy nose. You feel sick all over again thinking about the previous night, but you sit up anyway and swing your legs over the side of the bed. For a moment, you simply sit, wondering how you’ll go about apologising – wondering if he even wants to see you after yesterday. You had a _nasty _attitude with him. “FRIDAY, do you know where Steve is?”

The AI takes a second to respond. “Captain Rogers returned to his residence in Brooklyn in the early hours of the morning. Would you like me to get in contact with him?”

_Fuck._ He went home. 

Well, not home. He hardly ever stayed there anymore. He much preferred the Compound. Much preferred being close to you. You’ve only been there a few times, when the Compound was too busy and Steve was getting handsy and you needed to go somewhere quiet and private – but now that he’s retreated there…

“No, that’s okay,” you say. He needs to cool down. And so do you. Maybe a few days apart will do you some good.

**DAY 1**

You’re off bed rest. Another few hours in the cradle has healed most of your ailments, and you’re finally able to go back to your room. 

(It’s too empty, you think. It doesn’t smell like cologne anymore and there’s no shirts on the ground and your bed is too big and–)

“Whatever,” you say, collapsing onto your bed. “Whatever.”

**DAY 2**

Natasha senses something’s wrong – but she thinks it has something to do with your failure on the mission, not the blond who had been coordinating it. You watch Tarantino movies for the whole day – but as you lay on the couch, head on her lap, you can’t help but notice that she plays with your hair much differently than Steve does.

You hope she doesn’t notice that you’re restraining tears – she does love these jeans.

**DAY 3**

“Let’s get our nails done.” 

Your friend calls you up on day 3, too well-versed in the breakup blues – so she picks you up blasting Rihanna and City Girls and drives you to the mall. Black cards in hand, you drown your sadness in Tommy Hilfiger and Fendi, nails suddenly an inch longer and shimmering with glitter and gemstones. 

(And when you return home, shopping bags in hand, you notice a familiar motorbike parked in the garage.

“FRIDAY,” you say uneasily. “Has Steve come home?”

“Captain Rogers is currently in briefing with Miss Romanoff, Mister Wilson, Sergeant Barnes, Tony–”

“Okay, FRIDAY.” You bite your lip – and then you go upstairs, and you don’t come down for the rest of the night.)

**DAY 4**

Nothing changes. Steve seems to know where you are at all times and you have a sneaking suspicion that he’s enlisted FRIDAY’s help in keeping tabs on you. You go downstairs for breakfast and he’s miraculously in the gym despite the fact that he prefers to train in the afternoon – you go to the common area to sit around and chat and he’s mysteriously gone just as you enter.

_That’s it_, you think at dinner when you show up and his chair is empty._ That is _**_it._**

**DAY 5**

Okay, so you messed up. You admit that, and there’s no going back. So what’s the point in mulling over it, hm? You’ve decided that you’re going to move forward and make it up to him.

Bucky is running on the treadmill when you saunter up beside him, setting your own to a light walk. He spares you a glance, frowning. “Tony said not to strain yourself for the next few weeks.”

“And I’m not,” you reply, staring at him. He nods, and continues running.

But you’re staring. And staring. And _staring–_

“What is it?” He finally exclaims, panting. 

“I need your help. With Steve.”

“With Steve?” His brows furrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about–”

“Don’t play dumb, Bucky. It’s not a good look on you.” You turn off the treadmill then, easily coming to a stop beside him. “I know he told you about us.”

Bucky follows your lead. “Okay. And what about it?”

“Well, I did something stupid–”

Bucky raises his brows. “Understatement–”

“Okay,” you say loudly. “Yes, we all know it was a stupid choice that I made and I am _paying_ for it. The point is–” You lower your voice– “Steve got mad at me and I got mad at him and then we fought and, well…”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” The supersoldier hops off the treadmill and plucks his water bottle from the ground. “He’s… trying to keep busy. It’s annoying.”

“I want to make it up to him,” you say, biting your cheek. “But he’s gotten really good at avoiding me. I… need your help, Buck.”

Bucky stares at you for a long time. (It’s easy to see where he got _that _from–) But he finally uncaps his water bottle and takes a long swig, shrugging. “Okay, kid. Where do you need me?”

Everything has to be _perfect_.

You’ve planned this out meticulously – and realistically, you know everything will probably go well, because Tony is out with Pepper and Natasha’s gone to visit Clint and Laura with Bruce and Peter has school and Sam’s at a VA meeting and–

You breath deeply, brushing a hair out of your eye. There’s a record player playing Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald and you ordered some food and you’re dressed in this dress that Steve particularly likes – pale pink and frilly, hem coming to a stop just above your knees. You’ve done your makeup perfectly – more to calm yourself than anything – and you wrote out a big long speech that you memorised and–

The numbers on the elevator begin to rise – as does the panic in your throat. You tap your fingers along your skirt, going over the words in your head – but then the elevator doors open, and you see that flash of golden hair and pale skin and the words get stuck in your throat– 

Steve catches sight of you and his eyes go comically wide. He makes to step back into the elevator, but Bucky, as asked, pushes him out before he can even get a foot back in. 

“Nuh uh,” the brunette says. “Your girl has something to say to you. Have fun! I’ll be up at the pool. Don’t break anything!”

And he disappears behind the automatic door, leaving you and Steve alone on either side of the common area.

“Hi.” You swallow._ Hi? Way to be suave, ______.

“Hey.” He’s frowning again. God, you don’t want to see him frown anymore. You want to see that stupid goofy smile and his little blushy cheeks and the stern way he orders you around when he’s trying to hide that he’s hor– 

“I, um–” You gesture around you helplessly. “I wanted to apologise. And talk to you. A-and just – okay, I had a whole speech written, c’mon, _____ – I love you, okay? And that’s not the apology, by the way, I just want you to know. I messed up, Stevie. I messed up really bad and I – God, I just wanted you to be proud of me! I wanted to show you that I could complete the mission by myself and I didn’t think it through, I never do–”

You take a shuddering breath. (No tears, not when your eyeliner is this perfect.) “I never stopped to think about how it affected you. You’ve – you’re the strongest person I know, Steve. You’ve lost so much and you still power on and I didn’t think about how it would feel seeing me like that and_ I’m sorry._ I’m gonna be better, promise. I’m gonna work on taking orders and teamwork and I’ll even take up Tony’s offer to go to a therapist, okay? Because I love you and I need you and I–” You stop and look up at him, eyes shimmering and hands trembling. “Say something? P-please?”

Steve takes a few steps and he’s suddenly across the room, and with an embarrassing whimper you wrap your arms around his neck – and this relief settles in your chest, like you can finally stop worrying, like you can rest and be at peace because his lips are slanted against yours and he’s breathing the same air and his hair is just as soft as it was 3 weeks ago–

You hold a hand to the back of his head. You want him as close as possible, and he does the same – large hand spanning the back of your neck, tilting you up to meet him halfway, kiss a mess of lips and teeth and tongue.

“You fucking terrified me,” he pants, pulling away. His lips begin a trail to your jaw, to your neck, to the point where your shoulder and neck meet. His arms are strong and thick when they wrap around you, pressing you as close as you can possibly get. “You don’t know how much power you have over me.”

(_Language_.)

“I’m not planning on doing it again,” you say, smiling sheepishly and burrowing your face into his shoulder. He always smells so _good_. “Ever again. I’m sorry, Stevie.”

“I know you are, darling. I am too, you know. I shouldn’t have left, I know that… But you have to start following orders.”

“I will.”

“And start trusting me to have your back.”

“I do,” you mumble into his shirt, clutching it between your hands. “I do.”

“And no more missions together,” he says. The hand rubbing up and down your back stops, stutters, restarts. 

“No more,” you agree. 

Another bout of silence filled with the low crooning of Jimmy Durante. Steve pulls his head back from the crook of your neck, suddenly ensnaring you in his eyes. That small, goofy smile pulls at his lips – and God, your heart lights up at the sight. He doesn’t know the power _he _has over _you_.

“I’m bringing you back there–” Pecking your lips again – once, twice, three times, one hand creeping back up to the back of your neck– “New Orleans. We’ll go together, and we’ll do all the cheesy touristy crap you want. Cover the bad memories with the good. We’ll even do a _The Princess and the Frog_ tour.”

(The numbers on the elevator begin to rise again.)

“I do love cheesy touristy crap.” Your voice is watery, but neither of you mention it. You simply close your eyes again and tug him back down to you, one hand on the back of his neck and the other on his bristly whisker covered cheek. “I love you, Stevie. I really do.”

(The elevator doors open.)

“I love you too, darling.”

(Tony Stark looks up from his phone–)

Steve kisses you once more–

“What the_ FU_–”

_Uh oh._


End file.
